


The Start of a Beautiful Animosity

by Astrodynamicist



Series: The Pit Dragons of Alternia [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe, Blood and Gore, Caliginous Romance | Kismesis, F/M, Inspired by the Pit Dragon Chronicles, POV Animal, cockfighting but with dragons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-26
Updated: 2014-05-26
Packaged: 2018-01-26 12:52:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1689008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Astrodynamicist/pseuds/Astrodynamicist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You brace yourself, seemingly preparing to grapple with him. But at the last second you jump aside and rake talons across his flank. He dodges far enough that it remains a glancing blow, and you do no damage against his hard scales. You both wheel around to face each other. He immediately begins to slash at you, swipe after swipe after swipe, each short and controlled and almost too quick to track. You jerk your face back out of his range. But he just keeps coming. Soon you find yourself backing up dangerously close to the arena wall.</p><p>He is really starting to piss you off.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Start of a Beautiful Animosity

**Author's Note:**

> Written for HSWC 2014 Bonus Round 1. Prompt from cerulean_neuf:
> 
> "Pyralsprite ♠ Senator Lemonsnout 
> 
> Remember the first time Terezi and Pyralsprite sparred with the scumbag Lemonsnout?"
> 
> UPDATE: Thanks to ReAllyssa for pointing out a typo. It has been fixed. >.

The first time Mother-Mistress takes you to the arena, it is as frightening as it is exciting. The whole place is one huge miasma of smells and sounds - hundreds of people, dozens of dragons, the tang of labyrinthine metal walls, spicy clouds of food trucks, roars and screeches, and more flavors of blood hanging in the air than you even knew existed.  
  
You fidget in your trailer, corkscrewing your tail through the air and settling and resettling your wings against your back. This is what you’ve been trained for all your young life. When Mother-Mistress walks you out to lead you to your holding cell, you croon to her. You want so badly to make her proud.  
  
The wait in the cell is almost unbearable. You try to roll in its sandy floor, but she drubs you on the head. “No, Pyralspite. I didn’t spend half the night polishing your scales for you to get dirty just before your match.” You grumble, low grumpy noises from the back of your throat, but you obey.  
  
When the grate of your cell opens, you hesitate to walk through. You sniff up at Mother-Mistress, and she smiles, a flash of snow-smell against cool sea-spray, and urges you forward. She trots along the top of the winding wooden corridor with you as you lumber forward. There is a smell of tarnished bronze on the air, and you wonder what your opponent will be like. The closer you get to the arena itself the more you pick up on. He smells male, and young. But it isn’t until they open the massive steel doors that you really get a good sniff.  
  
He is of an age with you, but not an entirely new fighter. You can smell the fine striations of scar tissue netting his wings. But aside from an odd splash of lemon-yellow, there are no markings on his face. Which means he’s good. You’re pleased. Beating him will be an accomplishment. You screech a challenge, and he returns it. Then he charges.  
  
You brace yourself, seemingly preparing to grapple with him. But at the last second you jump aside and rake talons across his flank. He dodges far enough that it remains a glancing blow, and you do no damage against his hard scales. You both wheel around to face each other. He immediately begins to slash at you, swipe after swipe after swipe, each short and controlled and almost too quick to track. You jerk your face back out of his range. But he just keeps coming. Soon you find yourself backing up dangerously close to the arena wall.  
  
He is really starting to piss you off.  
  
You screech and shove forward, one forearm up to block as you lunge for his throat. You catch one of his arms but not the other, and instead of jerking sideways as you expected he instead rears up, roars, and slams his free talons into your face.  
  
Sharp pain explodes across your snout. The sea-smell of your blood fills your nose and drips from your chin into the sand. First blood. It’s first blood, and it’s _yours_ , and it’s from your  _face_. The crowd above you boos your disgrace. You can’t smell Mother-Mistress through your own blood and his bronze bulk, but you cannot imagine anything but a frown on her face. A frown, where you always earn sharp-edged smiles. You scream in rage.  
  
He swings his other forearm above yours to cross the first marks with new ones, but you manage to duck under it. You’re too low, now. He begins to drop his weight onto you, but as he falls you twist your head around and dig your fangs into his unprotected belly. He screams. His blood tastes like mulch and as you gnaw you think it is the sweetest thing.  
  
Until he crushes your head and neck into the sand with his chest.  
  
He starts biting at your shoulders. You can feel sharp teeth edge under your scales, lever them up. Each broken and ripped-out scale is a burst of pain, and then he gets to your skin. It is sensitive, having always had scales for protection, and each cut is agony.   
  
Underneath him it is suffocating, all heat and mulch-smell and grit. Your heart pounds and your head aches. You can’t breathe. You feebly claw at his sides, but you can’t get any purchase. You are running out of air.  
  
You feel a flash of heat above your wings and dimly hear the cheers of the crowd. He’s going to flame you. He’s going to flame you and cripple you and mark your throat and  _win_.  
  
Rage bubbles up past the frustration and you decide, well, two can play at that game.  
  
You pull what little breath you have left in your lungs together, feel heat pool in your belly, and then let loose. For a moment everything is white heat and then he’s screaming,  _screaming_ , and finally he is off of you and you can breathe and the air is so, so cool and clear.  
  
You surge to your feet. He’s reared back and is clawing at his burnt underside and screaming. The crowd cheers again, surprised at the turnaround. You bare your teeth with glee. Through all the chaos you can just barely smell Mother-Mistress. She’s pleased.  
  
You barrel forward and tackle your opponent, knocking him flat on his back. He squirms, but you swipe your fangs across his throat before he can free himself, leaving shallow marks across the unmarked skin there. He roars his anger, and you roar your triumph. The sound of his master’s voice carries across the arena, ordering him down.  
  
But you hardly notice. Because Mother-Mistress’s voice carries across, too.  
  
“Good job, Pyralspite! Good job!”  
  
As the arena handlers separate the two of you, you can smell the hatred radiating off of Mr. Lemonsnout. And you think, maybe this is the start of a beautiful animosity.


End file.
